Categories
Glory By Will Dabbs, MD
Here we see an American boy in his natural habitat.
This is the way we were all designed to be raised.
I get to indulge in a little fiction from time to time. I do love it so…
Malcolm Mabry’s was a hard life. It is invariably difficult being a 12-year-old boy. Testosterone is a toxin, and it is painful building up that initial tolerance. And then there was Misti.
Misti was his 15-year-old sister. She was mere weeks away from her sixteenth birthday. Then she would be able to drive. Misti reminded Malcolm of this fact constantly, quietly infuriating him. Despite the three-year age difference, he was hands-down the more responsible of the two.
The Mabry kids were homeschooled. That brought its own challenges. Malcolm’s parents held fairly traditional values. They didn’t even have cable TV. Malcolm spent his free time exploring the wilderness and drawing. He likely could have been content with that had Misti not kindly pointed out how secluded, mistreated, and put upon they both were. Her attitude was corrosive.
Both kids had friends through church, but most of those friends went to real school. As a result, they seldom had anyone over. They lived twelve miles from town on a secluded farm. They called it a farm, but it was really just a big stand of timber. They had considered chickens, but Misti had put her foot down. She was not going to live in a place that raised chickens. Malcolm’s parents weren’t exactly sold on the idea, anyway, so they let her win that one.
Malcolm’s mom was a disciplined woman. They did school according to a rigid daily schedule. That meant starting early and running late. The farm was their playground, science lab, and food source. They harvested game in the woods and caught fish in the pond that served as their backyard. They didn’t need wild stuff to live—Malcolm’s dad had a good job. However, his parents wanted the kids to have those skills. Misti pushed back at absolutely every opportunity.
The past Christmas had been epic. Malcolm had gotten a rifle—a Ruger 10/22 with a Tasco scope. He was thrilled to get it. Misti got a cell phone. It was a hand-me-down from her mom, but it had service. That phone was Misti’s ticket to freedom. She lived on the accursed thing. Malcolm’s parents consoled themselves with the realization that it was going to happen eventually anyway.
Every day, they ate lunch, did an hour of math, and then took a break. Misti invariably spent hers on her phone. At 1:30 sharp, Malcolm took what he called an explore. He would slip into his mud boots and wander the farm, just being a boy. An hour later, he came back sweaty and tired. That was the point.
The 10/22 really is America’s utility gun. Most shooters start out on such a piece.
He had done this for years. When he was a little kid, he carried a knife, the edge of which his dad had ground down in the workshop. When he got a little older, he graduated up to a BB gun and then a pellet rifle. Ever since Christmas, he had been authorized to pack his .22. Malcolm’s dad had been in the Army and impressed upon him what a weighty responsibility this was. Malcolm took that responsibility seriously.
Malcolm and his dad hunted together with some regularity. He had already killed two deer, a turkey, and a bunch of squirrels. His mom called squirrels tree rats and reviled them on principle. However, they still ate whatever they shot. Malcolm’s dad would not tolerate anything less.
Malcolm once came home boasting of having shot a turtle. His dad listened patiently to the story and then gently explained that taking life was a big deal and something that should never be done frivolously. The point was made without bruising Malcolm’s feelings unduly. From that point forward, he only shot stuff he would eat or venomous snakes. Venomous snakes were always fair game.
Malcolm’s dad was at work, and his mom was in town buying groceries. When the school clock read 1:30, Malcolm was rabid to get outside. Misti’s company had become extra-tiresome. His explore was incongruously both invigorating and exhausting. After around fifty minutes, he broke through the treeline surrounding his house and was surprised to see an unfamiliar vehicle.
There was a beat-up white van parked some twenty yards from the house with the back doors askew. Malcolm had left the garage door open. More curious than alarmed, he watched as a tall man with a shaved head emerged from the garage carrying his dad’s chainsaw. The man put the saw in the back of the van and then went back into the garage. Moments later, he emerged again, this time carrying his mother’s microwave
The Ruger 10/22 rifle is the most popular rimfire rifle in the world. More than five million copies are in circulation.
That’s when he remembered. This same man had shown up unannounced at the front door the week prior, claiming to be a handyman. Malcolm’s mom had sent him on his way, rightfully claiming that they had no work for him. However, that evening over dinner, she admitted that the guy gave her the creeps.
Malcolm, for his part, had no idea what to do. Then the man came out again. This time, he was carrying Misti.
Malcolm could see that his sister was struggling. Her hands and ankles were bound with black duct tape, and there was another piece over her mouth. She looked terrified.
He saw the man toss Misti roughly into the back of the van and reach to close the back doors. Malcolm dropped down onto one knee and formed a support with his left hand against a sapling, just as his dad had taught him. The boy steadied the rifle and studied the scene through the scope.
Malcolm’s heart was leaping out of his chest, but he was a hunter. He knew how to manage that. He could now see the tattoos on the man’s bald head clearly. For the briefest, tiny moment, the man stood erect and motionless after shutting the van doors. Malcolm placed the crosshairs over his ear, raised the sight about two inches to account for the distance, punched off the safety, and squeezed the trigger.
There was no noise. For a moment, Malcolm thought the gun had misfired. However, the big man crumpled behind the van as though hit with a sledge. Malcolm snapped the safety back on and pulled himself to his feet before tearing down the hill toward the van, the man, and his sister.
Malcolm would later explain that everything had unfolded too quickly for much conscious thought. The local sheriff sympathized. A week later, Malcolm Mabry was the most famous 12-year-old on Planet Earth.
He led a reconnaissance team during a mission near Phú Lộc, Vietnam, in 1967. During the engagement, Capers sustained multiple wounds while directing his men and coordinating their evacuation under intense enemy fire. His actions were instrumental in saving the lives of every member of his team.
____________________________________________________________
Pity it took so long to get it to him! (Almost 60 years!!) But that’s the problem with the Blue Max. In that sometimes you get it ASAP & other times it’s almost too late. I say that it’s just pure BS and a few officers need a blow torch pointed at them. Grumpy
His name is Vincent Speranza. Like other members of the Greatest Generation, he was full of grit. He joined the Army after graduating from high school in 1943. As an inexperienced 19-year-old, he was assigned to H Company, 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 101st Airborne. Shortly after completing training, Vince was shipped out to Bastogne, Belgium, as a machine gunner.
Here, he shortly found himself in the thick of battle, in a foxhole, during the dead of winter. He and his unit were freezing, hungry, scared and short on supplies and ammunition. To top it all off, they were surrounded by German troops. What could be worse?
“The first eight days we got pounded by German artillery,” Speranza recalled. “But this was the 101st. They could not get past [us]. They never set one foot in Bastogne.” On the second day, his friend Joe Willis was wounded, taking shrapnel in both legs. He was pulled back to a makeshift combat hospital inside a mostly destroyed church. Vince tracked him down and asked if there was anything he could do for his friend.
The answer was simple — Joe wanted a beer. Vince told him he was crazy! It would be impossible to get beer anywhere, as the city was destroyed and the 101st was surrounded by Germans. The supply chain was shut down, and they were constantly taking artillery fire nonstop.
What remained of the town was bombarded. But Joe wanted a beer. He needed a beer to take his mind off the war.
Members of the 101st marching in Bastogne.
Beer Run Bravery
If ever there were a medal for most courageous beer run, Speranza would have earned it! Moving through town in the cover of darkness, Vince went from blown-out tavern to blown-out tavern, searching until he found a working tap.
At the third tavern, Vince pulled on a tap and beer came flowing out. What would he use to transport his found treasure? Speranza filled his helmet — the same one used as a makeshift shovel and porta-potty in the foxhole — with all the beer he could handle and returned to the hospital.
Mission accomplished! Vince triumphantly poured beer from his helmet for Joe and the other wounded men around him. When the beer ran out, they asked him to go for more. So, what did Vince do? He made a second dangerous beer run. Surely, he was deserving of a second medal for such heroic actions.
The streets of Bastogne as they appeared in 1945,
when Speranza made his beer run.
Dangers of War
As he returned to the hospital the second time, Vince was confronted by a Major demanding to know what he was doing. Vince sheepishly said, “Giving aid and comfort to the wounded” was the paratrooper’s simple answer. A truer statement never uttered!
After an ass chewing about the dangers of giving beer to men with gut and chest wounds, Vince put his helmet back on, beer pouring down his uniform, and headed out. While that could have been the end of the story, the story continued for 65 years when Vince returned to Bastogne for an anniversary celebration.
Vince Speranza in front of the namesake beer he inspired.
Vince Speranza showing where he was in Bastogne during a visit.
Airborne Beer
When Vince returned 65 years later for an anniversary, tour guides asked him what unit he was with. When he told them the 501, the guides knew exactly where to take Vince. “You would have been dug in right here.” Vince looked around, acknowledged them, and looked at the filled-in trench. It was very emotional for Vince, as you can imagine.
Wanting to forget the ravages of war he experienced, he started telling other stories to lighten his mood. He eventually got to his beer run story, and the tour guides were shocked and stunned. “You’re the Guy?! We thought that was a made-up story! You’re famous!” At this point, the tour guides called the waiter over!
“Waiter, 4 Airborne beers, please!” Imagine Vince’s surprise when the waiter appears, with four bottles of beer on his tray, with a label of an American paratrooper carrying his helmet full of beer. And to top it off, the bottles of beer were served with ceramic cups shaped like an American GI’s helmet.
Airborne beer is brewed by Brasserie de Bouillon in Bastogne, Belgium. Now you know the rest of the story. Vince Speranza died August 2nd, 2023, at the ripe old age of 98. You can be sure he arrived in heaven with a helmet full of beer for all his Army buddies.
Categories
How America Weaponized Gravity
Categories
I got all of them!
Categories